


I Feel So Untouched

by zadigfate



Series: Untouched [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Female Friendship, Female Homosexuality, Femslash, Fluff, girl!Watson, girl!sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:32:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zadigfate/pseuds/zadigfate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Joan were unique flatmates.</p><p>There were spiteful people like Donovan and Anderson that might sneer and say they'd always known the girls at 221B were raging dykes, but that wasn't quite the truth.</p><p>Femslash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Untouched

**Author's Note:**

> I had the weird experience of starting out to right femslash smut and ending up writing nothing but fluffy fluffy fluff. So, a compromise. This work is the fluff, and the sequel will be the smut. In the meantime, enjoy the fluff.
> 
> ETA: Okay, I ended up just extending this to encompass the smut, rather than writing a sequel. Read on!

Sherlock and Joan were unique flatmates.

It wasn't just the body parts they kept in the refrigerator, or the bullet-riddled smiley face spray-painted to their living room wall, or the late nights chasing criminals through the London underworld. Those also made them unique, of course, but what really set them apart was their physical affection.

It was something only known to themselves, of course. If their colleagues at the Met had any idea what went on behind closed doors at 221B, their reputation as tough, independent lady detectives would be beyond recovery.

There were spiteful people like Donovan and Anderson that might sneer and say they'd always known the girls at 221B were raging dykes, but that wasn't quite the truth.

*

It started with simple gestures. Sherlock would occasionally touch Joan's arm to draw her attention to something when they walked, or rest her hand on her shoulder while she leaned over to scowl at Joan's latest draft of a blog entry. It wouldn't be anything exceptional except that it was _Sherlock_ , and Sherlock just didn't touch anyone, much less enjoy being touched herself.

Somewhere in their relationship as flatmates, they'd started more habitual physical contact. Sherlock would lie on the couch with her feet touching Joan's thighs, or her long legs stretched over her lap if Joan wasn't using her computer. Eventually Sherlock began lying with her head on Joan's lap instead, and the laptop was entirely forgotten. Joan even stroked her hair, sometimes, when she was particularly engaged in a book or a show on the telly.

*

Joan was astonished to learn that Sherlock had watched only a few movies in her life and was eager to expose her to all sorts of cinematic delights. Sherlock put up her token resistance, but really, it was nice to have something to do on non-case nights. The cuddling started inadvertently when Joan fell asleep on Sherlock's shoulder during _Titanic_ , but eventually became part of their routine.

Joan always returned from the video rental store with a DVD of her choice. Sherlock didn't get to choose unless it was between options that Joan had proposed – her tastes were occasionally bizarre but almost always gory. Joan was amused (and a bit unnerved) to find that Sherlock got a morbid thrill out of well-made horror and slasher films. She liked trying to figure out who the next victim would be and how they'd go. Action movies bored her and detective movies sent her to sleep (after she'd ruined the ending for Joan). It was hard to choose something that Sherlock would enjoy, but Joan found that science fiction, abstract films, and spy movies were usually well-received.

Their routine was so habitual now that they rarely needed to exchange words. Joan would put the DVD in the machine while Sherlock turned off the lights and retrieved the throw blanket. She would slide to the end of the couch and hold open the blanket for Joan, who crawled in beside her and cuddled into her side. It wasn't something they thought about anymore. It was just something they _did_.

*

Sherlock had been growing her hair out. It was a pattern she had followed all her adult life – she would cut her hair short and then wouldn't give it another thought for months until it had grown unreasonably long. The length would bother her for weeks before she would take a pair of scissors and cut it drastically short... and start the cycle again.

She cursed up a storm in the kitchen as her hair once again fell into the chemical compound she was experimenting on and ruined it. Even tying it back rarely helped when it was so long.

"Joan, where are the scissors? I am going to cut this damn hair right off," she snapped.

"Oh, don't do that," Joan sighed, looking up from her laptop. "Long hair looks so elegant on you, Sherlock. You never cut it straight, anyway."

"Irrelevant. Where are the scissors?"

"Have you tried braiding it instead?" Joan suggested.

"Don't know how."

Joan stood up and beckoned her to the couch. "Come here, I'll do it for you."

Sherlock begrudgingly came over and sat on the couch while Joan located a brush and an extra hair tie. It wasn't hard – their flat usually looked like a bulk bag of hair ties had exploded in the middle of it. Sherlock was forever compulsively tying her hair up and letting it down, leaving hair ties absolutely everywhere. Joan didn't complain, as her hair was shoulder-length but long enough to tie up when she needed to. It was convenient to just pick up the nearest hair tie from wherever it might be, whether it was her own or Sherlock's.

She carefully pulled the ponytail out of Sherlock's hair and started brushing it into something resembling straight. Sherlock was surprisingly still and obliging. Joan ran her fingers through her soft hair, dividing it into three parts. Sherlock really did have beautiful hair, even if she didn't pay it any attention. Joan genuinely hoped she wouldn't cut it, or at least that she'd let Joan trim it a bit instead. It would probably be impossible to talk her into getting a _proper_ haircut.

Joan's fingers moved quickly. She and Harry used to do this all the time together when they were kids, until Harry cut her hair almost military-short during an angry phase in high school. It was nice to be doing it for someone else again. She pulled Sherlock's braid particularly tight and tied it off at the end with an elastic.

"There," she said approvingly. "That should be much better."

Sherlock reached around and felt the braid with one hand. "We'll see," she said. She stood up abruptly to go back to her experiment. It would have to be redone, but perhaps some of the components might be salvageable from the original.

She didn't thank Joan for the braid or remark on it in any way while she completed her experiment.

But she still came back to Joan the next time she was about to commence a delicate experiment and presented her hair for braiding.

*

In a few weeks, the "hair thing" had become just another routine. Sherlock _did_ let Joan trim her hair, to Joan's secret delight. Sherlock had absolutely no interest in learning how to braid hair herself, but just sat on the sofa facing away from Joan whenever she wanted it done. Joan knew the signal well enough and abandoned her laptop to busy herself with her flatmate's lovely hair.

Sherlock didn't even request it solely for experiments anymore, but just enjoyed wearing her hair that way around the flat. Or so Joan thought, until she was braiding her hair with Sherlock resting on the floor in front of the couch, and she realized that Sherlock's eyes were closed.

"Do you like having your hair played with?" she asked.

Sherlock huffed and folded her arms. "It's not being _played_ with."

"It's all right if you do," Joan laughed. "Kids play with each others' hair all the time. It's fun."

"I... have never indulged in such a pointless activity."

"You've never had your hair played with?" said Joan, surprised.

Sherlock stiffened. "It's pointless," she muttered.

"All right," Joan relented. But she made an effort to take her time and be much more gentle and playful the next time she braided Sherlock's hair, and the time after that, too - and Sherlock didn't object at all.

*

Joan was having trouble falling asleep. It was bloody _freezing_ due to some cold front coming in that week from Siberia. She'd never cursed a place more, even Afghanistan. Years of service in the middle east had definitely reduced her resilience to the cold. The heating system was broken and _of course_ Sherlock couldn't be bothered to own a space heater. She'd insisted on taking her extra, heavier blanket downstairs for Mrs Hudson.

A selfish, sleep-deprived little voice in the back of her head wondered who really needed it more. Her shoulder wound was always particularly affected by the cold weather, and at the moment it was throbbing relentlessly. She wrapped her blankets tighter around herself but she just couldn't get warm.

It was only two in the morning. How Sherlock managed to stay up that late night after night with her bloody violin and her bloody chemistry experiments was completely beyond her comprehension.

Through the silence, she heard the swinging of a door and footsteps on the stairs. They were slow, and something was being dragged up the stairs with them.  _Sherlock_ ? she thought hazily.

The footsteps reached the top of the staircase and she rolled over to face the door, which swung open without a knock. As if Sherlock had ever knocked on a door in her life.

An enormous mound of duvet kicked the door closed and quite literally  _dove_ into bed beside her. Joan could just barely make out a few tresses of long dark hair peaking out from under the blanket.

"Cold," Sherlock muttered, her voice muffled from wherever it was hiding in her duvet. "Logically, the most efficient way of generating warmth is--"

"Yeah, yeah," Joan cut off. "Come here, you heat-generating body, you."

It was a bit of work to organize themselves, since both women were reluctant to untangle themselves from their own blankets, even though they both knew it was in their interest. Finally Joan succeeded in pulling Sherlock out of her duvet and laying their two blankets on top of them

Sherlock shuffled closer and snuggled up next to her.

"Christ!" Joan hissed. "Your legs are like  _ice_ !"

"So help me warm them up, doctor," said Sherlock crossly.

Joan rolled her eyes but intertwined their legs and started rubbing Sherlock's with her own. The other woman was absolutely freezing. For some reason, it made sense to Joan that Sherlock might have poor circulation. Her hands were probably cold too. She searched for them under the blankets – they were like blocks of ice – and clasped them in her own.

"Christ, Sherlock, you're freezing," she murmured. "And no wonder. Don't you have any other pyjamas?" Sherlock was only wearing her normal camisole and thin pants. "You could at least throw on an extra shirt."

"Took it off before I came up. Would have impeded transfer of body heat. Would be even more efficient if you took off your shirt as well."

Joan snorted. "If this is some ploy to get me naked..."

"That would have been optimal, but I thought you might react uncomfortably if I arrived naked to crawl into your bed. Although, if you would prefer--"

"No! God no. This is fine," Joan assured her. "Look, I'll even take off my shirt." She untangled herself from Sherlock enough to struggle out of her shirt, leaving her in her tank top.

Before she'd even thrown it to the floor, Sherlock rolled closer to wrap her arms around her and snuggle her face into the top of Joan's breasts. Her nose was a little cold spot against her left breast.

"Whoa," said Joan, feeling her cheeks heat up. "Er. All right. Sherlock. As you like."

"Warmth, Joan." She could feel Sherlock's brows lift in an eye roll against her skin.

"Well, but... ah, hell." She gave up and wrapped her arms around Sherlock's thin frame. It was a bit more intimate than she'd normally be comfortable with, but it was Sherlock, after all. Sherlock the asexual. Sherlock the ignorant-of-personal-space. Besides, the woman _was_ freezing and could really do with some warming up.

She let Sherlock snuggle with her like this for several minutes, even rubbing her hands over some of her colder spots until she was satisfied that Sherlock was properly warmed up. "If you want to sleep together – sleep _cuddled up_ together," she corrected herself, "We'll have to move a bit. I can't sleep in this position."

Sherlock stirred. She must have been close to sleep because her voice was drowsy. "What do you prefer?"

"Here, roll over. I'll – er – spoon you." God, that sounded so awkward coming out of her mouth.

Sherlock obliged and pulled away from Joan – reluctantly – to roll onto her other side. Joan came up behind her somewhat awkwardly to wrap her arms around her. She wasn't sure how close to pull Sherlock to her, how tightly to hold her. Even if they'd been handsy flatmates before, it was still a bit weird to find herself spooning her half-dressed, same-sex flatmate in bed.

Sherlock solved her problem by snuggling closer. Joan gave her a brief squeeze of assurance. She could deal with this. Perhaps it wasn't a normal thing to do between friends, but she and Sherlock had a quite unique friendship, after all.

Joan fell asleep to dreams of desert sand and heterosexual men that kept turning into Sherlock and cockblocking themselves.

Sherlock fell asleep to dreams of platonic snuggles with her best friend which grew less and less platonic as her conscious mind drifted away. Somewhere in her dreams was a voice reminding her that she was not quite as asexual as she would like to be, and a hope that her flatmate was not quite so heterosexual as she thought she was.

Joan would forget her dream by the morning, but Sherlock had never forgotten a dream in her life.


	2. Everything I'm Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan indulges in some serious self-reflection, proving that once again, denial is not just a river in Egypt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended to continue this story as a separate fic, but oh well - I decided that I will just change the rating and continue it here. Why not? With that said, PLEASE NOTE THE RATING CHANGE! This update is quite innocent but there will be SMUT in later chapters.

Sherlock had been acting more bizarre than usual lately, and Joan was beginning to get suspicious.

Since the first cold, winter night that she had dragged herself to Joan's room in the name of warmth, Sherlock had been finding all manner of excuses to share a bed with Joan.

_I booked us a double bed, it was cheaper than two twins. I can hear noise through my window and it's driving me crazy, I'll sleep up here with you. I'm conducting an experiment on my bed and need to sleep in yours. It's too cold in my room, let me stay with you._

At the current rate, Sherlock was managing to talk her way into Joan's bed about once a week, and the excuses got wilder and wilder. Joan wished there were a non-awkward way to tell Sherlock that she needn't bother with elaborate excuses if she just wanted a bed buddy. Having suffered from PTSD and the haunting nightmares that came with it, she understood the desire to have a deeply trusted person to turn to in the night.

She knew it wasn't _normal_ , but when was anything normal when Sherlock was involved? They lived a stressful and uncertain life, particularly with Moriarty on the loose, having sworn to kill them both in time. They had enemies. Every chase, every fight could be the last one for either of them. It was a way of life that Joan thrived on. But there were still nights when she would lie awake, like she had in Afghanistan, feeling so alone in a world full of danger.

She worried a lot about Sherlock. Their address was the most poorly kept secret in London, and they'd been assaulted in their own flat multiple times. Joan rarely had nightmares about Afghanistan anymore, but she did have nightmares about the cabbie, about the pool, about the hound... and then she would wake up seized with panic for _Sherlock_ , holding her breath and listening until she could hear the tinkering of beakers or the fluttering of pages from downstairs. They were never safe, not even at Baker Street. That was the life they had chosen. But sometimes she just needed to know that Sherlock was still _there_.

So what if they started sharing a bed more regularly? It didn't have to be weird. They were just _very good friends_.

This was something that Joan told herself frequently. _We are just very good friends. We have an intense and dangerous life together. Sherlock is has so little affectionate outlets. Of course we're closer than 'normal' friends_.

She usually believed herself. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Sherlock would roll over in her sleep to cuddle with her and she would believe herself a little less. _There is nothing wrong with an unusually intimate friendship_ , she thought stubbornly.

So what if they snuggled on the couch while they had their occasional movie night? She knew some close girl friends that would do that together back in uni.

So what if Sherlock liked to have her hair braided by Joan, liked to hug her, like to lie on her lap sometimes while she thought? That was just Sherlock. Sherlock had never had a proper respect for personal space. And there were so few people she was close to in this world that Joan was happy to oblige.

But that was it. There wasn't anything more going on with her flatmate. They were close friends, best friends, even intimate friends to an extent that Joan hadn't experienced before with another woman. That was just her and Sherlock. They were weird. They always had been. And it was fine.

*

Living with Sherlock had meant giving up any semblance of a normal sleep pattern, even for Joan. Excluding her occasional shift at the surgery, everything about their work schedule was erratic. That was how Joan explained to herself what she was doing on the sofa with Sherlock at four in the morning, barely able to keep her eyes open as they finished the last few minutes of the nearly five-hour 1934 French film adaptation of _Les Misérables_ on cable which had captivated Sherlock.

Joan wasn't even aware that she'd drifted off completely until Sherlock was shaking her shoulder. She was mildly embarrassed to find that she'd fallen asleep against Sherlock's chest, but too tired to care to do anything about it.

"Joan," her voice was calling. "Joan, it's over."

"Oh," she said groggily. "I missed that last bit. Who won?"

"Who _won_?" said Sherlock disapprovingly. "Didn't you ever read _Les Misérables_?"

Joan finally grew self-conscious enough to pull her face out of Sherlock's breasts and sit up to stretch. "No, I keep meaning to see the play though," she yawned. "Hey," she added more suspiciously. "So you have? How did _that_ ever escape deletion?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I was very disappointed in the lack of singing in that film," said Joan.

Sherlock looked at her blankly. "Why would there be singing in _Les Misérables_?"

"Aw, come on, Sherlock!" she prodded. "I Dreamed a Dream?"

"You had a dream?"

"No, it's – never mind," she sighed. "Not important. What time is it?" She looked around and noted the clock above the mantel, which was approaching four-thirty in the morning. "Shit," she sighed. "I should really be getting to bed. I'm too old for this..."

"I suppose it is quite late," said Sherlock, sitting up. She was quiet for a moment, then added: "You might as well sleep here tonight."

"Here... as in the couch?" Joan teased.

"I assure you, my bed would be much more comfortable, and I don't mind sharing." Sherlock stood up and stretched, her long and unruly raven hair falling over the shoulders of her camisole top. She turned just her head to look back at Joan. "Well, come on," she said impatiently.

Joan smiled. "Oh, why the hell not?"

Sherlock was usually the one to slip into her room late at night, but Joan had seen her fair share of Sherlock's room on lonely nights, too. She liked it. Sherlock's mattress was much softer and higher quality than hers – Joan was used to military-style bedding, after all – and she slept with a big, cuddly duvet almost year-round that was just heaven to collapse into at the end of a long day. It was nice for the occasional sleepover, but a bit too decadent for Joan's everyday tastes.

Neither of them were particularly body-shy with the other anymore and it was a warmer night than usual, so Sherlock just pulled off her pyjama pants in Joan's presence and crawled underneath the duvet in her undershirt and knickers. Joan did the same. She wasn't very warm at the moment, but with two people under a large blanket, she knew she'd thank herself later in the night.

Both of them had already brushed their teeth and readied themselves for bed before starting the movie (god, Joan thought, that was _five hours ago_ ) so Joan just turned out the lights and slipped into "her" side of the bed with Sherlock, who immediately rolled over to snuggle with her.

 _We will have to talk about this sometime_ , she thought, pulling Sherlock into her arms. We should sort this out.

Sherlock tucked her head under Joan's chin, giving Joan a very pleasant whiff of the expensive shampoo she'd used in her hair earlier that night. Sherlock always took her showers at night so her pillows and sheets usually smelled of that scent, one that Joan was beginning to associate intimately with her. A rich almond shampoo, or maybe some kind of coconut blend. She really didn't have a nose for these things. She just knew it as Sherlock's smell.

She rubbed the lady detective's back. Sherlock gave her collar something like a nuzzle – or maybe she was just adjusting her position. This was normal for them. Sometimes Sherlock liked to cuddle a bit before falling asleep, and Joan didn't mind. Cuddling was cuddling, and it was nice, and besides... she knew that Sherlock so rarely got to experience this elsewhere. It was all fine.

Joan was beginning to drift off again when Sherlock shifted her position and carefully pulled back. "Goodnight, Joan," she whispered.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," Joan mumbled.

She had just started to roll back to her side of the bed, when Sherlock put one hand on her shoulder to stop her – and placed a very chaste, very shy kiss on her cheek.

"Goodnight," she murmured again, and then rolled back to her side.

Joan was frozen.

 _We_ really _need to talk about this_ , she thought, her eyes wide and unseeing in the dark.

But not now. It couldn't possibly be now. Because in the instant that Sherlock's lips had touched her cheek – just brushed it, really, it was an extraordinarily innocent kiss – something burst inside her. Some explosion of feeling in her heart or maybe deeper that spread to the tips of her toes from that smallest of affectionate touches. It was a _good_ explosion, one that possessed her with the urge to roll over and take Sherlock in her arms, place kisses all over her face until she sighed in happiness, and then--

And then...

 _Fuck_ , thought Joan. _Fuck. I am not gay. I've never..._

But she tilted her head to look at Sherlock, just a sleepy outline of pale shoulders with long, sweet-smelling hair falling over the pillows... and her heart beat faster. She knew it wasn't completely true.

_Fuck_ , she thought.  _Fuck fuck fuck_.

She'd had this all planned out. Their conversation. That Sherlock was her best friend and her most intimate friend, and that it was completely fine for them to do things – like share a bed – that normal friends didn't do. Because they were that close. Because it wasn't weird. They were just really  _good_ friends.

But, god, how could she start that conversation now?

What would she  _say_?

What did she  _want_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for not updating this sooner, but after exams plus travelling plus some writers block, it just took a while to get it out. However, I have most of the next few chapters already written (there are at least three coming up), so it should update much more frequently from now on!
> 
> (Side note: the 1934 French adaptation of Les Misérables is very good! It's said to be the most complete film adaptation of Les Mis ever made. It isn't easy to find but it's worth watching if you do!)


	3. I Don't Wanna Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Joan continues to have a sexual identity crisis and Sherlock is surprisingly frank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter I'm afraid, but we're getting there... we're getting there. :D

Joan didn't say anything the next morning, but she felt Sherlock's eyes on her the entire time. It was uncomfortable to know that she was being observed, being _deduced_. Perhaps Sherlock had noticed her surprise in response to that kiss last night (of course she had) and was looking for evidence of how to proceed (of course she was).

Usually she didn't mind being the subject of Sherlock's deductions, but this time it was... unnerving.

It wasn't until she placed the usual plate of toast with honey in front of Sherlock that the brunette finally broke their awkward silence.

"You're questioning your sexual orientation," she said matter-of-factly.

Joan blanched despite expecting the statement all morning. But there was no use trying to fool Sherlock. Joan knew who she was; it didn't work.

This conversation was happening, and it was happening now. Over toast and tea.

But she wasn't ready to jump into Sherlock's arms quite yet.

"A bit," she said slowly, settling into her seat across the table from Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes were focused on her with that deductive glare, and her hands came together in front of her lips. As if they were discussing the blurry motives of a triple murder, and not... this. It was almost comically out of place and oddly comforting.

"You shouldn't," said Sherlock, waving a hand dismissively. "To have a full identity crisis over something like that would be illogical."

"Illogical?" Joan repeated incredulously. "Explain to me exactly how a sexual identity crisis is _illogical_. I can't wait to hear it."

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "Honestly, Joan! You're a doctor, you ought to know the basics of human sexuality. Namely, that sexuality is _fluid_. Concepts like "gay" and "straight" were merely invented for our convenience. Sexual orientation itself is more of a complex spectrum."

"Going all Kinsey on me, are you?" said Joan dryly.

"Hardly. His models focused on only one dimension of human sexual behaviour and have since been expanded to include other factors for improved accuracy."

"Right. Of course." Joan wondered if these were things that Sherlock had known before, or if she had recently been on a researching binge in preparation for a conversation like this.

"Only a very small percentage of the human population – and an even smaller one for females in particular – falls within the categorization of completely heterosexual or completely homosexual," Sherlock went on. "Statistically, it's more likely that you fall in a grey area between heterosexuality and bisexuality."

Joan found herself fidgeting with her cold toast. "All right, so what about you, then?" she demanded. "You told me you were married to your work. I always assumed that you were kind of... asexual, or something."

Sherlock rolled her eyes. "Oh, Joan. Surely if there are shades of grey between heterosexuality and homosexuality, there are similar grey areas between asexuality and hypersexuality. Just because I don't have a supposedly _normal_ sex drive, it doesn't mean that I have no interest at all."

"Well, but have you... I mean..." It was the question that Joan had been dying to ask her since the Irene Adler affair, but never dared. Even now, she fought to keep her words from faltering. Lord, it was awkward; it just wasn't a question one usually posed to another grown woman. "Do you... have any kind of _experience_ in that area? You know," she added quickly, "Evidence. To be sure."

Sherlock leaned back in her chair and fixed her with those sharp blue eyes. "You mean to ask, am I a virgin?"

"It's just that, during the Adler case, you remember, Mycroft said--"

Sherlock actually laughed at that. "And you'd believe him? Mycroft hasn't always kept such a close eye on me. Do you really think I would go out of my way to notify him that his innocent little sister was having a shag? You've seen how overprotective he is, and you know what he's capable of."

Joan was genuinely surprised. "So you have!" she said. "Had sex, I mean."

Sherlock began to munch on the end a piece of toast, but rolled her eyes all the same. _Of course I have_ , the look said. _Don't be daft_.

Joan sat back and crossed her arms over her dressing gown. "I'm just surprised," she admitted. "I guess I thought you were... beyond that, somehow."

Sherlock swallowed. "It's a motive in too much of human behaviour for me to completely ignore it," she said. "And I don't really have the need for it like others seem to. I have far more important things to do with my time. But back in my frankly _boring_ days at university, I had a lot more free time than I knew what to do with."

Joan laughed. "Going after all the boys, were you?"

Sherlock fixed her with another sharp look. "That statement presumes a lot. Especially given the nature of this conversation."

"Girls?"

"Just one."

Joan thought back to what she already knew about Sherlock's uni days. There was a name. She remembered it from one of Sherlock's stories. "Victoria?"

Sherlock stuffed another piece of toast in her mouth instead of replying, but by the sudden evasive nature of her eyes, Joan guessed that she was right. Sherlock seemed reluctant to go further on the subject and Joan took the cue to start on her own cold toast and tea.

Sherlock finished her breakfast before Joan – a first. She again clasped her hands under her chin and watched Joan work through her last piece of toast.

"Can you not deduce me while I'm eating?" Joan complained between bites. "It's a bit weird."

"You seem significantly more relaxed," Sherlock observed. "Have you resolved your sexual identity crisis?"

Joan swallowed the last bite of toast and took a brief sip of her tea. "I's not something that can be resolved with logic in a single conversation over breakfast," she sighed. "I need some time to think about it... absorb it... you know. I just need some time."

Sherlock gave a deep sigh of what Joan assumed was impatience and began drumming her fingers on the table. "All right. Take your time," she said reluctantly.

Joan smiled. "Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't reply, but instead stood up and – to Joan's great surprise – took her dishes over to the sink. She didn't wash them, of course, but even that little gesture was greatly out of character. Sherlock avoided her raised eyebrows and scurried off to pluck her violin from its case. Joan was probably in for a whole morning of irritation-fuelled concertos, but that was fine.

As Sherlock struck the first staccato notes, Joan realized that they had managed to hold an entire conversation about themselves and their possible relationship without actually bringing up their possible relationship.

Her sexual orientation. Sherlock's sexual interest. But the implication was there. She and Sherlock had been doing this a lot lately: having secondary conversations based on their shared understandings about the _real_ topic under discussion, based on what implications they knew the other would tease out of their words. They knew each other well enough to have these conversations on more than one level.

_You're confused and not sure whether you're attracted to me._

_Yes._

_You shouldn't worry so much about labels._

_But I thought you weren't sexually attracted to anyone._

_I can be._

_This confuses me even more._

_Are you ready to try a relationship?_

_Not yet. I need time to accept this._

_Fine. Come find me when you're ready._

Joan finished her tea and began on the dishes, but the sound of the water running and dishes clinking together wasn't enough to drown out the furious notes of Sherlock's violin.

 _Hurry up!_ she was crying. _Hurry up, hurry up, hurry UP!_ _I hate uncertainty. I hate waiting!_

Joan sighed.

 _Hold on, you crazy girl. I'm getting there_.

**

Over the next few days, Joan wrote no new entries for her blog, though there were no cases to distract her attention from writing. But each day, she just opened up a draft entry and stared at the blinking cursor while she thought about Sherlock.

Joan admired and adored her mad flatmate – a bit too much sometimes. She loved her rare smiles and the sound of her laugh. She loved her utter brilliance and the energy in her that radiated enthusiasm and curiosity when she was on a case. Hell. She even loved the richness of her voice and the way it felt to run her fingers through her hair. Sherlock had an unearthly beauty about her that made her impossible to resist.

 _Bugger_ , she thought. _This is not a very heterosexual train of thought_.

To be honest, she could see herself being... _flexible_ for Sherlock. They were already so intimate in their daily lives. Really, they were so like girlfriends already, there was only one aspect in which they were lacking - and that was the one aspect Joan was most uncertain of.

Joan would be happy to live here forever at 221B, cuddling with Sherlock on the couch, sharing a bed with her at night, even exchanging affectionate kisses as they liked. But to actually have _sex_ with Sherlock... she wasn't sure if she could.

It wasn't that she feared the actual mechanics of lesbian sex. She knew how it worked and, well, she wouldn't _mind_ it, but she wasn't sure if she could be _satisfied_ in a sexual relationship with another woman. She had up until this point been completely heterosexual. She liked men. She liked dicks. She liked penetration a _lot_. Would she be satisfied with breasts and strap-ons the rest of her life?

It was a measure of how deeply their trust had grown that Joan actually brought up her concerns – in slightly less explicit language – with Sherlock.

For the first time, Sherlock was completely frank with her.

"I am rarely attracted to anyone in this stupid little world," Sherlock told her. "Even when I was younger, sex has never been an important part of my life, so... I will take whatever you are willing to give, Joan."

Her soft eyes made Joan's heart melt. Sherlock was sometimes the most exasperating woman in the world, but in moments like this, when the softer Sherlock had fought her way to the surface, it was hard to deny that she was deeply, hopelessly in love with this woman, whether it was platonic love or something more visceral and passionate.

Looking into those eyes, she was also a bit in awe of the power, of the intelligence, in the woman behind them. Sherlock was far too beautiful, far too brilliant to be _hers_.

Joan placed her hands gently on Sherlock's shoulders. "I love you, Sherlock," she said firmly, looking right into the other woman's widening eyes. "But I think I need some time before I can be okay with the, er, physical aspect of our relationship."

A blush was creeping those gorgeous cheekbones, but Sherlock's eyes were still wandering over Joan's face for confirmation. "To what extent?" she asked. "Just sexually? Or... can we kiss?"

"Er, yeah," said Joan, feeling her face heat up. God, was she actually blushing? "Kissing is fine."

"Can we keep sleeping in the same bed?"

"Yeah."

"And we can..." Sherlock had held it together admirably, but seemed to shy away at the next bit. Her eyes flickered from Joan's face to the wall behind her. "We can... touch? Frequently?"

"Uh. You're going to have to be a bit less vague than that, Sherlock," said Joan uneasily.

Sherlock fidgeted and looked away. "Like we already do... in front of the telly, sometimes..."

"Oh!" said Joan, suddenly amused. "You mean, cuddle?"

Sherlock averted her eyes, her cheeks growing pinker against her pale skin. Joan wanted to laugh. God, she was adorable when she was shy!

"Yeah," Joan confirmed, unable to keep the amused look from her face. "We can... _touch_. Frequently."

Sherlock broke into a big smile. "Then I am satisfied," she announced. "I don't require anything more... for the moment." Joan swore she saw a _sly_ look flash through her eyes just then, but she must have imagined it. This was _Sherlock_ , after all.

Joan couldn't help herself. She grinned and pulled Sherlock into a hug


	4. Hook Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan and Sherlock get snuggly and... stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally things heat up!

Joan woke up, as always, in Sherlock's room. In the last two weeks they had gradually taken over the room as "theirs", which involved shuffling some of Sherlock's stuff out and some of Joan's stuff in. Her room upstairs was being used as storage for the moment, but they'd discussed turning it into a sort of office or consulting room so they wouldn't have to constantly subject their clients to the horror show that was their flat. That would probably be a between-cases project.

The last couple of weeks had been... nice. Sherlock was surprisingly (or perhaps not-so-surprisingly) affectionate in private. Joan suspected that her prickly and cold demeanour in public had something to do with it; probably very few people had ever shown Sherlock affection. It was their misfortune, because Sherlock was really adorable in her responsiveness to the simplest gestures. She loved having her hair played with. She loved cuddling before bed. She seemed to enjoy stealing kisses for no reason other than to prove that she could.

It was probably just a temporary high from being involved in her first genuinely affectionate relationship, but Joan secretly hoped it would never wear off.

In the midst of interesting cases, Sherlock was almost the same as always. Still single-mindlessly focused on her work, still staying up way too late and eating way too little. She was still prickly to Joan and oblivious to anything not related to the case. But there were still the occasional stolen kisses and, while reviewing her notes or looking through reference material, Sherlock still liked to have her hair braided or played with by Joan.

This morning there were no cases, and Joan wasn't expected back at the surgery for a few days. So she didn't feel guilty at all about having a bit of a lie-in with her new girlfriend.

She opened her eyes lazily and turned them to Sherlock. They'd fallen asleep curled up together again. Sherlock was lying with her back cuddled up to Joan's front, Joan's arm flung over her waist.

Joan felt her heart speed up almost painfully at the sight of her. She was wearing only her camisole and knickers. Her long, dark hair spilled out over her bare shoulders, curling on the bed where she had rolled in the night. From her angle on the bed, Joan could see her chest gently swelling and falling with her sleepy breaths. Slumbering somewhere beneath that peaceful face was the mania of the brilliant woman Joan knew, and a thrill ran through her at the thought.

She was just so damn _gorgeous_.

Joan let herself stare. Sherlock looked so unguarded, so vulnerable while she slept. Every part of her looked warm and comfortable, and Joan felt the obscene urge to reach out and touch those soft breasts that were only too well on display in those pajamas...

 _Definitely not a very heterosexual train of thought_.

All right, after so many platonic make-outs she was starting to lust after Sherlock. That was definitely a good thing, wasn't it? That was what Sherlock wanted for them?

But she still hesitated to touch. Sherlock deserved better than mere bi-curiosity.

 _It's not curiosity anymore,_ a voice in her head insisted. _You love her, you know you love her_.

 _But what if I don't actually like it_? she argued. _What if I have sex with her and decide I don't like it_?

_You're awfully wet for someone who isn't sexually attracted to your flatmate_ , the voice responded.

_Damn_ .

She shifted her legs uncomfortably. Sherlock went on sleeping, blissfully unaware of the lusty looks her maybe-bi-after-all flatmate was throwing her way. Although nothing was happening, Joan felt uncomfortably voyeuristic. Maybe she should wake her up? But what would she say?

_"Hello, I'm awfully wet and I think I'm attracted to you. Do you mind if we shag so I can be sure?"_

God, and Sherlock would probably say yes, too. She did love her experiments.

Fuck it.

Joan shuffled closer to tighten her hold on Sherlock and buried her face in her shoulder. Sherlock sighed without waking up. Joan slipped her hands underneath Sherlock's top, keeping to her waist and abdomen while she trailed kisses down her neck. Damn, her skin was impossibly soft... and just sweaty enough from their body heat in the night to leave a very faint Sherlock-flavour on her lips.

"Joan?" mumbled Sherlock drowsily.

"Morning," she replied, lips moving against her neck.

Sherlock turned her head slightly in confusion. "Joan, what—" she drew in her breath sharply. Joan had taken the opportunity to press a wet kiss to the corner of her jaw and gave the spot a quick affectionate lick with the very tip of her tongue. Sherlock's breath caught so delightfully in response and she left soft, brushing kisses up to her ear, where she took the earlobe very gently between her lips.

Sherlock's hand reached back and gripped Joan's thigh through the sheets. "That's nice," she mumbled. It was an understatement; she was squirming so much in Joan's arms and nearly leapt right out of them when Joan started teasing her earlobe with her teeth. Joan filed the information away in her growing Sherlock repertoire.

Joan placed a final kiss on the nape of Sherlock's neck and pulled back for a proper look at her partner. The view took her breath away. Sherlock's skin was flushed down her chest as far as Joan could see and her hair was splayed adorably around her face and shoulders. Her cheeks were bright pink, her eyes hazy, pupils dilated. She'd unconsciously curled her fingers into little fists. So aroused from such a simple touch. Joan wanted to capture this vision of beauty, this image of _her Sherlock_ so aroused, and hold it in her head like a screensaver until her dying day.

She must have stared long enough to make Sherlock uncomfortable, because she reached out a pale, trembling hand to touch Joan's wrist, still resting just above Sherlock's waist. Joan felt the question as if it were transferred through touch.

"You are _beautiful_ ," said Joan, lifting that hand to stroke her waist. "Just... right now, you look so gorgeous. You have no idea."

Sherlock's cheeks darkened and she turned her head away. A bit of the shine faded from her eyes. "I'm really not," she murmured.

"You really are," Joan insisted. "Look at me."

Sherlock stared resolutely at the wall.

Joan shifted her weight so she could comfortable lift her right hand to brush Sherlock's cheek and gently turn it back towards her. Joan waited until those stormy eyes made contact with hers. "Look at me, Sherlock. Look at my pupils. Feel my heartbeat. Take my pulse if you prefer." Not breaking eye contact, Sherlock took her up on it, lifting a hand to wrap her long fingers around Joan's wrist. Joan smiled.

"I'm heterosexual, you know," she mused. "Well. Was, maybe. _Close_ to a Kinsey-One. I've never looked at a woman this way in my life. Look at me now, Sherlock. You know I couldn't fake this. And you... are the most beautiful woman I've seen in my life."

Something passed over Sherlock's face. It was only there for a moment, but Joan saw it. She was awed and humbled with the realization that she was probably the only person who had ever seen that expression grace those beautiful features. Sherlock's lower lip was trembling.

Joan leaned forward and captured those lips in a gentle kiss.

It was growing not-so-gentle by the instant as Sherlock wrapped her arms around Joan and kissed back with increasing fervor. It was _nice_. That, so far, was the best word Joan had been able to come up with: snogging another woman was _nice_. Sherlock was thin but so soft, and the way her body molded itself so slightly to accommodate her hands and lips was so pleasant and unexpected...

Before these morning cuddles, Joan had vaguely wondered if she needed to worry about their breasts getting in the way. Men had flat chests; it was easy to snuggle up to them. Would it be weird to snuggle with another person that had breasts? They seemed inconveniently placed for snuggles.

The way she was lying with Sherlock now, their bodies so warm and comfortable, pressed up against each other and fitting so _perfectly_ and deliciously, she could have laughed at the ridiculousness of her worries. How could she have had such reservations when being with Sherlock felt so _right_?

Sherlock's hands were sneaking up the back of her tank top and Joan realized, with amusement, that Sherlock was contemplating whether to pull it off. Joan pulled back to give her a sly grin.

"Can we take off our clothes?" Sherlock mumbled, looking more flushed than ever.

"You smooth-talker, you," Joan teased.

Sherlock gave her an irritated look – a halfhearted one, at least. Not nearly up to her normal standards of expressing indignation. "I see no reason to be coy," she stated matter-of-factly, though her eyes betrayed her anxiety. "I... am not proposing to have sex; not yet, but..." she shrugged as well as she could manage. "I would like us to be... intimate."

Joan cocked her head to the side and gave her an affectionate look. "Coming from you, I suppose that's nearly poetry," she said fondly. "All right, well... let me just, er..." She sat up and fumbled with her top. Sherlock had seen her naked plenty of times before (for various non-romantic reasons), but she still felt alarmingly exposed as she threw her top to the floor. Immediately, Sherlock's eyes were intensely focused on her body, but not with the deducing look that Joan had grown accustomed to... they were the curious eyes of a new lover, and it felt completely alien coming from Sherlock.

Joan moved her legs to straddle Sherlock's waist and very nervously pushed up the hem of her undershirt. "Well, then," she said awkwardly. "You too, yeah?"

Sherlock took over where Joan's hands had faltered and pulled off the top in one elegant motion. Probably she then threw it on the floor, but Joan's eyes were a bit too occupied to notice. She'd seen Sherlock naked before. Of course she had. They were flatmates and Sherlock was not body-shy in the least. She'd even lain around the flat topless in the hottest days of summer, to Joan's embarrassment, proclaiming clothes "unnecessary" in the privacy of their own flat.

Still. Formerly-straight Joan was not quite prepared for this moment.

Sherlock's hands on her own chest pulled her out of her daze. Joan started slightly in surprise. The hands were feeling her out, squeezing her, weighing her. Not quite sexually, but curiously. Even in bed, she was ever the scientist.

Joan had felt up more than her share of breasts as a doctor. She returned Sherlock's caresses, but her own touches were more practiced, more focused. Sherlock gasped as she pinched a nipple experimentally between her thumb and forefinger and let out a soft moan when she rolled it between her fingers. Joan took her other nipple between her fingers too, rolling them both, and Sherlock shivered.

Joan hummed in pleasure as Sherlock mirrored her actions. Her breasts were definitely not her own most sensitive area, but Sherlock's hands were warm and nice. She pinched Sherlock's nipples and pulled them back a bit, earning her another arch of the back and a purr from Sherlock.

Was this weird, to be sitting here just touching each others' breasts? Was this something _normal_ female couples did? God, it was like adolescence all over again.

Fuck if it was normal, they'd do this however they liked.

Joan bent over and captured one of Sherlock's breasts in her mouth, drawing a hum of pleasure. This, at least, she knew how to do. She ran her tongue around Sherlock's nipple in a few lazy circles, enjoying the heavy breathing it provoked, before trapping it between her lips and flicking mercilessly with the tip of her tongue.

Sherlock cried out. "Joan—oh," she whimpered. She had abandoned Joan's breasts and wrapped her arms around her back instead. "That's... better than I expected."

Joan pulled back to give her nipple long, full-bodied licks with the flat of her tongue, while gently caressing Sherlock's other breast in her hands. Sherlock was moaning softly and consistently, running a hand up Joan's back. Joan switched breasts and attacked the other with her mouth while pinching and twisting the wet nipple from the first between her fingers. Sherlock whimpered and bucked her hips.

"This is somewhat better than I remembered," she managed, sounding a bit dazed and out of breath. "I didn't think the stimulation of—ah..." Joan had lifted her head to suck at her sensitive jawline again, twisting both nipples this time with her fingers, making Sherlock shiver.

Sherlock grabbed her head and pulled her up to meet her lips in a desperate kiss. _I love how good you make me feel_ , she couldn't say. _It's not boring at all_.

They had been grinding their hips somewhat unconsciously against each other for the last few minutes, Sherlock noticed. Completely involuntary and illogical, at least in their current position. She started shifting, trying to find the right spot.

Joan noticed and pulled back from their kiss, looking flushed and rather stunning. "Hang on," she murmured. She held Sherlock's hips in place and moved one leg to rest between Sherlock's thighs before bending back down. "Might be better..." and she rolled her hips, making both of them gasp.

She recaptured Sherlock's lips and kept grinding and it was _fabulous_. _Yes, this, exactly this_ , thought Sherlock hazily. She wrapped her arms around Joan again as they both moved together against the delicious friction. Joan moved down to kiss her throat and her fingers were teasing her nipples again and _oh_ , it felt so sinfully good.

Sherlock found herself thrusting up more impatiently. The pressure was _good_ but it wasn't enough.

"Joan," she panted. "Stop, we should..."

Joan pulled back immediately. "What?"

Sherlock's face was bright pink and already glistening with a hint of sweat. She was struggling to articulate herself, and the sight of Sherlock Holmes flustered and speechless was one that Joan intended to commit to memory. "I want..." She swallowed. "I... need more."

Joan's brain needed a moment to process this. "You want— _ohhh_." Her eyes widened as it occurred to her exactly what _more_ would imply with a female partner. "Ahh." It was her turn to be lost for words. A wave of panic swept over her. _I have no idea what I'm doing. Jesus, even Sherlock has more experience than me... what is she expecting?_

Sherlock was watching her face, her clear eyes still sharp through their lusty haze. She quirked her head to the side. "Would that bother you?" she inquired. Not irritatingly; her tone was of genuine curiosity. "Is that... too far?"

"Well, it's not that," said Joan, lifting one hand to brush her hair back. "I've just never really done anything with another woman before, and er--" she ducked her eyes sheepishly. "I'm sure I'll be rubbish at it. You know better than me in this area, after all..."

Sherlock shook her head. "Don't worry, Joan. Really," she said. "I told you once that I've never actually reached orgasm before with a partner, so I'm not expecting... well. Anything like _that_."

It didn't make her feel much better. "I just really want to make you feel good," she sighed.

"I do," Sherlock assured her. "I will. Believe me, I was not nearly this responsive when..." she quickly remembered an earlier discussion, about bringing up former lovers during cuddly moments being _not good_. "Well, I just wasn't expecting to be this aroused," she admitted. "You're the differing factor, Joan. It pleases me enough to know that it's _you_ here with me."

Joan was incredibly touched. "All right," she said, smiling down at Sherlock. "I guess in the worst case scenario, we could always break out the vibrators," she joked.

Sherlock perked up at this. She already knew that Joan possessed such things; as much as Joan might grasp at the illusion of privacy, the sounds from her bedroom were unmistakable... and she'd always wondered. " _Can_ we?" she asked. "I've always wondered if they would work."

Joan sat up straight, rubbing against Sherlock inadvertently in a way that made her shudder. "You've never used a vibrator before?" she cried.

"Never," the other girl admitted. "Didn't seem worth it. More interesting things to do."

"Have you ever used _anything_?" Joan asked. "You know... dildos? Shower heads? ...Cucumbers?" _Didn't you do any of that with Victoria?_

"Certainly not!" Sherlock looked appalled at the very thought. She clenched her legs together – as much as it was possible with Joan between them. "Do people actually _do_ that?" she said, horror plain on her face.

Joan rolled her eyes.

"Don't worry, there won't be any cucumbers or other assorted vegetables going near you tonight," she promised. "I have something _much_ better. But I need to know – have you masturbated much... at all?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A few times when I was going through puberty, and then a bit in uni," she said dismissively. "But I didn't make a habit of it. Too _boring_."

Joan looked down at her with sympathy and gently patted her thigh. "Ah, Sherlock," she sighed. "You bitch to me all the time about the disadvantages of the female physique, but you haven't taken the effort to see just how nice it can _be_."

"Well, that just now – that was... nice," she admitted.

Joan smiled. She was absently stroking Sherlock's thigh now. A plan was forming in her mind, and her performance anxiety was beginning to give way to excitement. It didn't have to be perfect, but it could be _fun_. Sherlock obviously hadn't done much exploring of her own body and, well... if Joan wasn't completely confident in her oral skills, this at least was something she could help her with, something they could do together.

"In that case, are you up for a bit of _experimentation_ tonight, Sherlock?" she asked sweetly, careful to stretch out the magic word.

Sherlock's eyes glittered at the thought and a wide smile spread across her face.

"I would love that," she said dreamily.

Joan grinned. "Right," she announced. "I have to run up to my room – my old room – to grab some things, but I will be right back, and then we'll start. All right?"

Sherlock nodded in reply and Joan leaned over to plant another soft kiss on her lips while she disentangled herself from Sherlock's body. "I'll be right back," she murmured. She backed towards the door, enjoying the sight of Sherlock sprawled so vulnerably over the bedsheets.

It was going to be _fun_.


End file.
